


Restoration

by diandrahollman



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Second Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/pseuds/diandrahollman
Summary: "You get the call in the dead of night. Early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This deals with the aftermath of sexual assault. Mind the tags. The actual assault is never "shown", but will be partially described by the victim. I have never been a victim of such violence, so I won't pretend I understand what this is like, but I will endeavor to do right by all the people who have survived something like this.

You get the call in the dead of night. early enough for you to not be quite deeply asleep yet, but late enough to be distressing. Because nobody calls at such an hour unless something has gone horribly wrong.

"John," Mycroft says by way of hasty greeting. "I need you to come to St. Bartholomew's as soon as possible. I am sending a car."

Your first horrifying thought is that Sherlock is dead. But as you swim up through residual layers of sleep you realize that Mycroft would not summon you with such urgency if it were too late. "God, what happened? Is he all right?"

Mycroft hesitates long enough to make it clear that he isn't. "He asked for you."

You pause in your frantic scramble for some clothes to put on. He asked for you. Therefore he is alive and conscious and able to communicate. Yet the tightness in Mycroft's voice and the fact that he even agreed to summon you tells you he is far from "all right". 

"I'll be right there."

**************

It is two a.m. by the time you reach the hospital, but you have so much adrenaline humming through your veins that you are wide awake. You keep kicking yourself for not being concerned when he didn't come home last night, for not trying to call, even though there are no indications that he tried to call you either. Did something happen to his phone?

You are directed to a private room and you realize that Mycroft has made sure everyone at intake knows who you are and allows you entry. You don't ask any of them for more information. They wouldn't know anything anyway. You are therefore unprepared for the sight that greets you on the other side of the door.

His face is almost unrecognizable beneath the swelling and bruises. His entire lower right arm is encased in a splint. You cannot see much of the rest of his body as it is covered by a hospital gown, but you can guess it is just as damaged as the parts that are visible. Worst of all, a nurse is attaching padded stirrups to the end of the bed while a doctor lines up tools and evidence collection bags for something you had hoped never to see again after your time in A&E. 

Rape kit.

"Doctor Watson."

Mycroft is standing beside the bed, his hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. He doesn't say anything else. Simply gestures for you to approach. You see him squeeze Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly before moving aside so you can take his place.

This close you can get a better idea of how extensive the damage is. For a moment, you find yourself cataloging the injuries and piecing together details of the attack just like he would. The attacker - attackers... there had to be more than one - was right handed because the worst of the damage is on the left side. Defensive wounds on both hands show he fought back, which might also explain his broken right arm. One of the bruises on his throat is in the distinct shape of a human hand. The eye that isn't swollen shut rolls in your direction and he gurgles an approximation of your name through puffy lips, his jaw barely unclenching. His good left hand reaches for you and you take it, mindful of the cuts and scrapes along the knuckles. 

"I'm here," you say numbly. You run the fingers of your other hand tentatively along the curve of his jaw, feeling sick as he whimpers. It isn't broken, but it may be dislocated. You swallow any questions you may have had. He may be able to answer, but you don't want to be the cause of any additional pain he would likely endure from the effort. "I'm here," you say again, helplessly.

“Mr. Holmes,” the doctor says in a deliberately low, soothing tone. “Can you lift your legs for me?” She helps guide his legs into the supports one at a time, but it’s obvious she is doing the majority of the work. His breath catches a couple times and he makes a low whining sound he probably isn’t even aware of. You hear her slip on some gloves, but you refuse to take your eyes from his face. You can’t look.

“I’m going to start the internal exam now,” the doctor warns in the same comforting tone. “I’ll try to be gentle. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

He grips your hand tighter and makes a choking noise you recognize as an attempt to swallow the pain.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

You notice the glassiness of his one good eye as he struggles to focus it on you and wonder how you didn’t see it before. “What are you giving him for the pain,” you ask the closest nurse, barely looking up.

Two things happen at once. The nurse shakes her head and says something about waiting for a blood test to confirm. At the same time, Sherlock sluggishly taps the back of your hand in the unmistakable rhythm of Morse code. C13H16CINO.

“Ketamine,” you murmur at almost the same moment as the surprised nurse.

‘Needle,’ Sherlock adds as the nurse talks about drug interactions and local anesthetics. ‘4. Poison. Snake. Sis-‘ He grips your hand suddenly, choking on a moan. 

“Sorry,” the doctor says gently. “Little pinch.”

You still his fingers with your other hand before they can continue their frantic beat. “Later,” you murmur. “You can tell me later, yeah?”

You look away from him for a few moments as another nurse hands the collected evidence to Mycroft. It’s not until that moment that you realize there is a distinct lack of police officers present. Obviously either or both of the Holmes brothers has decided to keep the incident need-to-know. You catch Mycroft’s eye and share a look of mutual understanding. You will both do whatever it takes to protect Sherlock – from public attention as well as the men who hurt him. He trusts you to handle the former. You can trust him with the latter. You nod, both an agreement and a promise, and he leaves, sparing one last pained look at his brother. You doubt you will see him again until after he has tracked down all of the men the rape kit identifies and ensured every one of them faces whatever form of justice he sees fit. 

"Okay," the doctor announces when she has finished her examination. "We're just going to put a couple stitches here and then we'll be finished."

Stitches. Jesus.

You steel yourself and concentrate back on his face, giving him a sad, watery attempt at a reassuring smile. "It's all right now. Just breathe."

'Breathing is boring,' you hear his voice groan in the back of your mind. You wonder, as you look at him now, so dazed and stripped of his defenses, not even rolling his eyes at your ridiculously inadequate attempts at comfort, if you'll ever get that Sherlock back. You shake your head to dispel the thought. No. He's stronger than that.

"Hurts," he slurs suddenly and your chest aches in sympathy.

"I know. I'm sorry. I think the ketamine is wearing off." This last part is directed at the nurse, who responds by checking Sherlock's vitals again.

"Right," the doctor announces, putting down her instruments and standing up. "You can put your legs down now."

Again, she has to help Sherlock do this, lifting his shaking limbs from the stirrups one by one. But this time she has barely lifted the second leg when a broken wail bursts from his throat. He flails, mindless in his pain, and you and the nurses rush to keep him still before he hurts himself further.

The doctor holds perfectly still through his thrashing before carefully lowering his leg and gently feeling his abdomen and pelvic bones. He yelps and convulses as she touches a spot near his groin. You reach to soothe him, mutter some horrible reassurances that you know he can't possibly be insensate enough to believe.

He looks at you and says your name and he sounds so *lost*. Somehow this is worse than all the men - boys, really - you treated on the battlefield. You're not sure if that's because it's Sherlock or because he is a civilian and this attack is so random and senseless.

"Let's have another look at the x-ray," the doctor tells the head nurse. "Where are we on blood work?"

"He's an addict," you blurt before the nurse can respond. "He has a high tolerance for drugs, but he can't..." You swallow, your mouth feeling impossibly dry, and look down at Sherlock, whose eyes have taken on that vacant look again. "Epidural. Can you give him an epidural?"

The doctor nods and gives orders to the nurse.

Sherlock has begun muttering under his breath. You can't make sense of the words except for the occasional repetition of your name. You lean close, burying your face in matted, bloodied curls, and continue your efforts to calm him, even though you suspect he has already retreated deep into the safety of his mind palace.

"I'm here. You're safe. I'm here," you whisper in his ear.

If only you could fool yourself into thinking that was enough.

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...I didn't expect the reaction I got from the first chapter. You guys are lovely and your praise gives me extra incentive to make sure I don't fall on my face in future chapters. Thank you!

The hairline fracture to his pelvis is so small that it takes a specialist and a second scan to confirm it. Sherlock is put on bed rest for a week, his pain managed by epidurals and non narcotic drugs. It isn't enough, but you can't risk anything else. You hold him, distract him when it gets to be too much. Sometimes you just let him scream at you - and reassure him later when he begs your forgiveness. You help the physical therapists treat his jaw and guide him through exercises for his broken arm. You help the nurses bathe him, use a bed pan and give him sitz baths to ease the pain. You stand beside him when he practices walking again, ready to catch him if he falls, the physical therapist guiding from the other side of the walker as he shuffles painfully around the room. 

When he is able, he gives you detailed descriptions of the men who attacked him. You give them to Mycroft. Coupled with the DNA from the rape kit, you are confident he has all he needs to track them down. Especially considering Sherlock's descriptions were characteristically full of details about former prison sentences, likely origins of scars and meanings of tattoos, and the deduction that one of the four men has a sister who owns two cats. You don't know whether you are more proud or horrified to find that he was so alert while he was being beaten so savagely.

You almost panic when you arrive one day to find his bed empty. Before you can call someone – summon an alarm – you hear voices coming from the bathroom.

He is slumped on the closed toilet, his eyes closed. A nurse – Julie, you recall – is taking his pulse and steadying him with a soft hand on his back. 

“Everything all right,” you ask quietly, not wanting to startle him.

“Just catching our breath,” Julie says when Sherlock remains quiet.

You squat beside him and cradle his face between your palms, coaxing him to look at you. The pain and weariness in his gaze tells you more than mere words could. He may be getting better and stronger, but he has good days and bad days. This is not a good day. “Julie, could you get the wheelchair?” You are too focused on Sherlock to spare her much of a glance, but she understands. You see a spark of gratitude in his eyes as she removes the walker he used to get from the bed to the toilet and reappears less than a minute later with the wheelchair, situating it in the same spot and engaging the locks.

“Ready,” you ask him.

He takes a deep, trembling breath and nods, reaching for your shoulders.

You stand, guiding him up with you, wincing as he chokes back a whimper and clutches the back of your jumper with his undamaged hand. 

“Slowly,” you murmur in his ear. “I’ve got you.”

You help him the few small, shuffling steps to the chair, bearing much of his weight as you ease him into the padded seat. 

“Give me a number,” you prompt as you flip the footrests down and guide his legs onto them. “How bad?”

“Eight,” he says softly between panting breaths.

You look at Julie and she nods. You both know that an “eight” for Sherlock is an “eleven” for anyone else. “I’ll get the doctor,” she says before quietly slipping out.

“Let’s get you back to bed, yeah?” You pat his knee and force a smile.

He is quiet on the way back into his room, but you don’t think anything of it until you go to engage the brakes on the wheelchair again and spot a tear sliding down his cheek. You hesitate only a moment, uncertain if acknowledging this moment of vulnerability would be more humiliating than helpful, before gently wiping it away and cradling his face.

“I can’t...” He says the words as if they are being torn from him against his will. Another tear spills over your fingers and you suspect he is referring to more than just his ability to get back into bed.

“Shh, it’s all right.” You kiss his forehead softly and gather him in a loose embrace, your cheek crushing the curls at his temple, trying to lend him your strength – even if you don’t feel particularly strong. You whisper reassurances until he stops trembling and his breathing steadies.

“Here.” You guide his arms around your neck and position your own beneath his knees and behind his back. “Hold on.”

It is less than five steps to the hospital bed. You know you won’t drop him.

He is barely able to swallow a whimper as you set him down – perhaps more heavily than you’d have liked. “Sorry,” you mutter. “So sorry.” You gently detangle yourself from him despite his slurred protests and hurry back to the loo to grab a flannel, wetting it with cool water.

By the time the doctor arrives to administer the epidural he is calm and you have washed away the evidence of his moment of weakness. He clutches your hands as the catheters are inserted (both in his spine and his bladder as he won’t feel the urge to urinate when his lower back is numbed).

Julie helps you get him comfortable – as much as is possible – before she leaves you alone.

“Try to get some sleep,” you whisper, soothing his brow with your thumb, your entire upper body practically on the bed with him as you lean close. 

He squeezes your other hand. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

You smile, kiss his healing knuckles, and watch as he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I referred to when I said Sherlock would describe the attack. It is as graphic as this story will ever get concerning the rape. The focus of the story, as always, is not on the event itself, but the aftermath and the healing process.

He only really sleeps when he succumbs to the exhaustion and he often wakes from nightmares with your name on his lips. You take to sleeping in a chair beside him, leaning on the bed, falling asleep with his hand in yours, beneath your cheek, or tangled in your hair.

The nurses take pity on you and arrange for a larger hospital bed to be brought in. It's more comfortable than sleeping in the chair but you don't sleep any better. You are too afraid of hurting him accidentally. He sleeps better, however, when he can burrow in your chest and hear your heart beating. When he can feel the warmth of your body curled protectively around him.

You sleep when he does and sometimes you barely wake up when the nightmares come, whispering sleepy nonsense into his hair until he stops shaking and his breathing deepens. 

The first time you help him bathe in an actual bath - the one back in 221b, which he insisted on using immediately upon his return from hospital - you have to fight back tears. The healing bruises on his body are a stark reminder of the violence he endured. It is horrific to contemplate how people can be capable of doing things like this to each other for no reason at all.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, shaking you from your thoughts. 

"How's that?"

"Don't look at me like I'm some broken...thing that you don't know how to fix. It's hateful."

You watch as he struggles to finish washing the parts of him he can reach with his non-dominant hand. "I don't think you're broken."

"Is that not the word?" he sneers. "How about ruined?"

"You're not ruined either." You snatch the flannel from his hand so you can finish washing the parts he can't reach. He huffs in annoyance, but doesn't resist as you scrub his good arm and back. "You are hurting and you are angry and - whether you want to admit it or not - you are scared."

"Stop it," he snaps. "Stop pretending you understand. You can't possibly understand what it's like to be beaten nearly unconscious, drugged and repeatedly sodomized. You don't know what it's like to feel your arm break under the weight of one man's knee and be unable to scream because another one is shoving his filthy penis so far down your throat that you can't even breathe. You don't know what it's like to realize that this is how you are going to die and it will not be heroic or even accidental but due to a random act of violence and your body will be found discarded in a back alley like some common prostitute."

You sit back, stunned into silence as he slides under the water for a moment and pushes sodden curls back from his face with his good hand. "Pass me the shampoo," he mutters, holding out his hand.

You reach for the bottle and squirt a generous amount into his palm, quietly watching as he washes his hair one-handed. He is still a bit clumsy, but he is getting better at doing some things left handed. You almost reach to help rinse the suds out of his hair - something he had found soothing when you did it in hospital - but stop yourself, certain that he would not welcome the gesture now.

You wait until he finishes and drain the tub, helping him climb out and sit on the closed toilet. You don't speak, except for the occasional quiet direction as you help him dry off and pull on a t-shirt and joggers.

"Do you want a shave," you ask, eyeing the two-day stubble on his chin. 

He shakes his head, sniffs and looks for all the world like a lost little boy. You want to hold him, but you aren't sure he will accept comfort from you just yet. 

You reach for his cane. "Can you manage the walk alone while I clean up?"

He nods.

You help him to his feet and watch as he hobbles from the room, reassuring yourself that he won't fall. Then you tidy up the bath and fetch some paracetamol and a glass of water.

You find him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at the floorboards beneath his bare feet. He accepts the tablets from you with only a slight hesitation, swallowing them with half the glass of water. You gesture for him to finish it when he tries to hand it back to you. He does with little resistance. You set the empty glass on the floor and kneel before him, taking both of his hands in yours.

"I'm sorry," he finally says, watery, anguished eyes meeting yours. 

"It's okay," you say soothingly. "You're right, I don't understand. But I'm here. I will listen."

His tears well up despite his obvious efforts to hold them back and his lips start to tremble with his uneven breaths.

You sit on the bed and gather him in your arms before the dam breaks. He collapses into you, his body quaking with the force of his sobs, clinging to you like you are the only thing keeping him from drowning in a sea of pain and depression.

By the time the worst of the storm passes, you are laying on the bed with him draped over you, still clinging but no longer as urgently. You rub his back and neck, comb fingers through his damp hair as he talks in a broken voice, recounting the attack not in the detached way he did for the authorities, but in raw emotions. He talks about the fear he felt when the drugs they injected took effect and rendered him too weak to continue fighting. The pain and shock when the beating turned into rape. The cold of the night air on his bare skin. The horror of understanding that he might not survive - and not knowing if he really wanted to.

You cry with him until he is too exhausted to cry anymore. Then you cry for him. You murmur helpless apologies for all that he has suffered and promises to keep him safe from now on between kisses to his forehead, cheeks and, eventually, his lips. You taste the salt of your combined tears.

"Don't leave me," he whispers.

You know he likely only means it as a plea for you to stay while he sleeps. You never discussed whether you would continue the arrangement you'd had at the hospital once you returned to 221b. But it doesn't matter. You clutch him tightly and vow "never."


	4. Cover Art

Might be a bit small...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still reeling over the way the world has been turned upside down this week. I'm not sure when I'll be able to focus enough again to write anything, but I'm hoping offering up something I had already written might prove therapeutic. I know I can somewhat relate to the way Sherlock feels in this chapter, even if the reason for my grief isn't quite so direct.

You cannot stay on leave indefinitely. One of you has to work. So you go back to the clinic and try not to worry about him. He is stronger, physically, but he still has nightmares. You doubt he will ever stop having them. It helps that he sends you the sort of texts he always has, aside from the one rant about not being able to play his violin as well as he used to (this will improve with time as his arm strengthens, you know. He just has to be patient). Mostly, it's grumbling complaints about Mrs. Hudson's "endless prattling" (you make a mental note to thank her for checking on him) and requests for you to bring home various odd supplies for whatever experiment he's conducting followed by "and we're out of milk".

His return to a mostly normal routine explains why you don't worry when he goes quiet one day, even if the last message he sent informed you that you were out of bleach and the kitchen towels were now hopelessly bloodstained. Which is why you are surprised to find him curled on the couch in the sitting room when you return to the flat.

"Everything all right," you ask as you hang your coat. When he doesn't respond, you know the answer is no.

You drop your bag on the chair hastily and kneel beside his head, feeling his brow and checking his pulse and pupils. "Speak to me, Sherlock," you plead. He seems fine, physically, but his eyes are bloodshot as if he's been crying. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

He doesn't reply, simply stares through you.

You follow his gaze and spot his mobile on the coffee table. You pick it up and turn on the screen to find his inbox already open to a text from Mycroft.

'Brian Hillcox is dead,' it says simply.

The tension bleeds from your body as you understand the significance. With his help, Mycroft had finally tracked down all of the men who had attacked Sherlock. Three have already been remanded into custody. Brian was the final suspect, and, you recall from Sherlock's testimony, the most vile. He was the one who had dislocated Sherlock's jaw and nearly choked him, both with his hands and his dick. He had only drawn a line at any further violation because he was as hypocritical as he was disgusting, a fact he made clear when he called Sherlock every homophobic slur he knew while holding him down so his buddies could have a go. 

You turn the mobile off and set it down before reaching for him again, covering his clenched hand with yours and rubbing his knuckles gently with your thumb. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

His eyes slowly focus on your face and you reward him with a smile. 

"I'm going to make you some tea."

He doesn't reply. He just blinks sluggishly and lets his gaze slide away again. You squeeze his hand and lean in to kiss his cheek, tasting long-dried tears.

You call the clinic while you wait for the kettle to boil to tell them you will need to take one more day off work. You don't want to leave him alone right now. 

You set your mobile beside his on the table when you return before coaxing him to sit up. He drags himself upright as if fighting the overwhelming pull of gravity. You wrap his hands around the cup and take a moment to kick your shoes off before sitting beside him, sideways on the couch, rubbing circles on his back while he sips numbly at the tea.

"Do you want to talk about it," you ask gently.

He sniffs.

You lapse back into silence. He doesn't need to explain what he is feeling now. You can guess. He may not have been innocent by any measure before the attack. You doubt he was a virgin as some claimed. But those men still took something from him. He isn't the same man he used to be. He can barely leave the flat anymore. He is terrified of being alone - this you recognize even though he would never admit it. He doesn't trust anyone but you. Not even himself. He clings to you even though you can tell he hates how pathetic it makes him feel. 

What he's experiencing now looks familiar to you even if you doubt he fully understands it. He is too rational and grief is too irrational. He is grieving; not for the men who did this to him, but for what they took from him. It doesn't matter that all the men who attacked him have been dealt with - faced some sort of justice. It doesn't change what happened to him. It doesn't undo the damage they did.

Sherlock sets his mostly empty cup on the coffee table and curls into your welcoming arms, his face buried in your neck.

 

Eventually, you wind up laying with your head on one of the pillows you keep on the sofa, Sherlock trapped between you and the back cushions, your legs entwined, arms wrapped around each other, pressed intimately together in the narrow space. It's not comfortable. You're pretty sure his tight grip is the only thing preventing you from falling to the floor. But you don't care.

"You're safe now," you whisper, kissing his forehead tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath your hands as you continue your efforts to soothe him. "I'm here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter is partly inspired by these two beautiful fan images (though I reversed the arrangement):
> 
> http://constancecream.tumblr.com/post/111827040728/milfiepumpkin-i-told-you-theres-enough-space
> 
> http://ofcowardiceandkings.tumblr.com/post/114065348893/aaaayyyyyy-guess-whos-scanner-is-working-again-b


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has gotten more response than I ever anticipated and I want to thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos. I want to address what happened in the comment section of the last chapter. I'd like to think the commenter who called me "disgusting" and accused me of "getting my jollies" from this was simply lashing out in (misguided) anger. That she was an actual survivor of sexual violence and was insulted by my efforts to portray a character with a similar experience. I debated responding to her directly, but was assured that it was basically an anonymous comment and similar comments were being left on MANY stories that day. So I have to assume that it was simply a drive by flaming. But more important than the comment itself was the response of the lovely people here to it. You rallied around me and defended me before I even knew what had happened and then continued to offer love and support and pleas to not let this discourage me. You proved that when confronted with hate, you respond with love. THIS is why we join these fan communities. I am humbled by you and honored to be a part of your community. Thank you.

You can't keep him from going back to consulting work for long, so you try to at least steer him from the more dangerous cases. This doesn't prove all that difficult as he is more hesitant and takes fewer risks than he used to. He also still doesn't stray far from the flat without you, though he would deny this if you mentioned it.

The first time you venture back into the field you carry your pistol. It is more for your peace of mind than anything and you hope you don't find reason to draw it. Everyone treats Sherlock like he's made of glass at first. Donovan even offers to fetch tea for him. By the end of your first real case, though, they have all relaxed and fallen back into something resembling their old routines.

It's the second case where your slackened vigilance catches up to you.

It is all so easy. The criminal walks straight into your trap like a mouse going after a bit of cheese. And that's when Sherlock gets over confident, drawing the confession out of the suspect with all the delighted flair of a showman, gloating as he points out all the mistakes the killer made that made his guilt so very OBVIOUS. Suddenly, there is a knife in the desperate man's fist and - heedless of the police officers surrounding him, or perhaps simply uncaring - he lunges for Sherlock.

You react quickly, disarming the suspect and pinning him to the nearest wall, unsure if the officers shouting commands are telling you or the killer to "stand down". It doesn't matter. You hold him immobile until Lestrade can take over and cuff him.

"I've got 'im," he mutters. "See to Sherlock."

You turn to Sherlock, adrenaline still buzzing through you, and find him frozen, staring numbly at his bloodied hand. Your training takes over and you paw at his clothing in search of the source of the blood while you try to get his attention. 

"Sherlock? Stay with me. Where are you hurt? Sherlock! Look at me!"

His eyes focus on your face, wild and terrified, in full panic. He struggles to say your name between breaths so uneven and forceful that he is nearly choking on them. His body is beginning to shake. If he keeps this up, it won't be long before he passes out.

You abandon your search and cradle his head in your hands. "Look at me, Sherlock. Slow it down. Deep breaths. Look at me!"

His eyes can't stay focused, frantically searching for the danger that has already been neutralized. You feel it when his body starts to collapse, his knees giving out, and you catch him, slowing his fall. 

You sit behind him on the pavement, pulling him up against your chest, and speak directly in his ear. "Breathe with me, love. Just close your eyes and breathe. I've got you." You take deep, forced breaths yourself until he begins to unconsciously match your rhythm. "That's it," you murmur as he sags in your arms. "That's good, Sherlock. You've got it. Nice and steady."

You finally located the source of the blood - a slash along his side that is deep but not serious, his coat having deflected most of the blow. You pull his scarf from his neck and use it to stop the bleeding, murmuring reassurances when he issues a soft, broken whimper in response.

Lestrade squats beside you, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. You're not sure Sherlock even registers his presence, so focused is he on you to the exclusion of all other input, his eyes tightly closed. 

"I'll call an ambulance," Lestrade offers, reaching for his mobile. 

"Noooo," Sherlock moans, his hands scrabbling at your supporting arms. "No hospital. Please..."

You understand this, even if you would prefer to let somebody else treat his wound. He doesn't want to be surrounded by people right now. He needs calm and quiet and gentle reassurances. He needs the comfort and safety of home.

"No." You make sure to keep your voice low and calm. "Just call a cab. I can take care of him back at the flat."

Lestrade looks at your hand pressing the scarf to Sherlock's side. "Sure?"

"It's nearly stopped bleeding. Just needs a few stitches. I can handle it."

He nods, trusting your judgment. "I'll drive you."

He goes to hand the suspect off to Donovan. You don't hear what they say, but you see her bend the suspects arm just a little too far, drawing a yelp from him. 

"'m sorry," Sherlock mumbles. 

"Shh...just keep breathing. It's fine."

"No," he moans softly and draws his knees up, hands fumbling for the edges of his coat. You mistake this as an instinctively seeking of warmth and abandon your efforts to put pressure on the cut so you can wrap the coat tighter around him and rub his arms. 

It isn't until Lestrade returns to help Sherlock into the back seat of the car that you realize he was trying to hide the urine stain on the front of his trousers. He is shaking so badly he can barely stand and has to lean on you to walk, but he still looks away from you in shame when he catches you looking at this evidence of his fear. You wonder how many times your heart can break for him.

"It's fine," you assure him as you help him ease into the leather seat and climb in right after. "It's perfectly normal."

He remains silent the whole way home, staring blankly out the window, his hand clutching yours tightly.

He leaps from the car the second it rolls to a stop and runs into 221B. You follow as quickly as you can while still taking the time to thank Greg (promising to text him later) and reassure a startled Mrs. Hudson hovering at the bottom of the stairs.

You find him in the shower, hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around himself, shivering despite the heat of the water, which is turning slightly pink from the blood. You turn off the tap and wrap him in as many towels as you can get your hands on before settling him on the edge of the bath so you can stitch the wound. 

"I can't stop shaking," he whispers when he finally breaks the silence. 

"I know. It's okay." You keep your voice low and even, your touch careful as you finish the stitches. "I ever tell you...the first week I got back from Afghanistan...I was just walking out of Tesco when a car backfired. By the time I figured out what it was I was on the ground, reaching for my weapon, which, of course, I didn't have. I just sat staring at the box of cereal it had taken me twenty minutes to decide on spilling out onto the curb and I cried." You tie off the last stitch and cover the area with gauze, taping the edges down smoothly. "PTSD is normal. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."*

His hands are in your hair suddenly, pulling you into a frantic kiss. You don't fight it. After a minute he sags into your arms, his face buried in your neck, still trembling faintly.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah?" It's still early, but he could use some rest before considering dinner. You'll probably get takeout again if you get hungry. It wouldn't be the first time you've eaten in bed. You could use the rest yourself as you're pretty sure your own panic at the sight of him bleeding and terrified will kick in soon.

He nods, not lifting his head as he adds tentatively, hopefully, "your room?"

You both discovered that he sleeps better when he is in your bedroom upstairs. You don't know if that's because it's further from the front door of the flat or because he feels more secure crowded onto your smaller bed with you wrapped protectively around him. It doesn't matter. You will continue to do whatever it takes to make him feel safe.

You kiss his cheek softly. "Okay, love."

Pressed into the curve of your body beneath the thickest blankets you can find, with your breath warming the back of his neck, he finally stops shivering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I realized when I wrote this that it was a direct response to something He Who Shall Not Be Named said recently. I refuse to change it. Like many other things, he is wrong about this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter. This one involves non-penetrative sex between two men, but if that bothered anyone I assume they would not be reading a fic labeled as John/Sherlock. Mostly it's a lot of talking about their relationship.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on this story. You have all been wonderful.

You know it would surprise people to learn that your relationship with Sherlock - while intimate - never involved sex. Not that you would ever tell anyone because it's none of their goddamn business. What you have defies standard labels. If you had to describe it you would say you are platonic lovers. You complete each other. You don't need to have sex to validate your relationship. In fact, you always believed that would only complicate it. Although you would be lying if you said you didn't desire it sometimes. You have always assumed he didn't and kept a respectful distance.

The first time you wake up with a hard on pressed to his thigh you are mortified. He tries to reassure you by reciting statistics about nocturnal tumescence in men your age, but you still feel like your body is betraying you. He was raped, for god's sake. He has only just fully healed physically. The last thing he needs is another man's hard cock anywhere near him. You retreat and take care of it in the shower, burning with shame as you try and fail to imagine anything other than his mouth wrapped around you, his naked body writhing beneath yours.

Then one morning you wake to find his hand wrapped around your cock, stroking languidly, your joggers simply shoved aside unceremoniously.

You try to bolt from the bed instinctively, but his strong arms hold you back, keep you pressed against his body. He shushes you, his rumbling voice melting your resistance, his warm breath curling around your ear. 

You come embarrassingly fast.

You relax in his embrace as you recover your breath, finally allowing yourself to enjoy it as his hands explore your body, his lips trailing over your shoulder, teeth nipping gently at your neck. You can feel his cock press insistently into your back.

You reach back to rub his hip and he growls. "What do you need me to do?"

You feel him shake his head before burying his face in the back of your neck. You stroke his arms soothingly, feeling him practically vibrate with tension and need. You twist until you can reach his mouth, tangling your hand in his hair and pulling him to meet you half way. He whimpers into the kiss and you feel his grip on you slacken. You turn in his arms and press your palm over the straining erection tenting his pants, rubbing slowly and deliberately.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp, his head falling back to the crumpled pillow. You take this as invitation and press your lips to his exposed throat.

"John," he moans. 

Emboldened, you push him onto his back, intent on working your way down his body, mapping his skin with your tongue. 

You realize your mistake a second too late.

"No," he yells, almost smashing your nose as he jolts upright and scrambles away from you. He doesn't get far on your smaller bed. 

You crouch as far away from him as possible without vacating the bed entirely and babble desperate apologies, disgusted by your loss of control.

"Stop it," he snaps, digging his palms into his forehead. "Just...stop! Stop apologizing."

You fall silent, watching helplessly as he calms, the tension bleeding from him slowly. You want to touch him, comfort him, but you are afraid that would only make it worse.

"Do you need me to leave," you ask tentatively.

"No," he blurts, reaching for you, gripping your hand tightly as if he is afraid you will bolt anyway. "No, don't...don't leave me." He winces, as if he is ashamed of his own need, and slowly releases your hand. "I shouldn't have done that. I miscalculated."

"You shouldn't have done what?"

"You were getting an erection. I didn't want you to run off again. I thought I could..." He shakes his head, disgusted. "It was a stupid idea."

You try to follow his logic. "Help me out here, Sherlock, because I don't think I understand. You're apologizing for wanking me?"

"Should have anticipated you would try to return the favor."

You sigh as understanding sinks in. He doesn't want to be touched. Not like that. Not by you. "I'm sorry, I just thought...I won't do it again."

He groans. "No, John, don't be an idiot. I want to have sex with you, I'm just not ready *now*."

You sit silently for a few moments, biting back the instinct to apologize again. You ease back onto the mattress fully again and reach toward him, rubbing his lower back with firm, yet cautious fingers. "Is that really what you want or is it just what you think I want?"

He flinches. "Can't it be both?"

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable, no. I'm perfectly happy with our arrangement as it is. We don't ever have to do...that. I would understand and I will love you just the same. Asexuality is nothing to be ashamed of."

He snorts. "You think I'm asexual." It's not a question, so you don't answer. "Just because I don't *need* to have sex doesn't mean I don't *want* to have sex."

"Okay. I'm sorry. You've just never...I'm sorry. You're right." You take your hand back, feeling awkward.

He sighs and climbs from the bed, carefully maneuvering around you. He plucks his dressing gown from the hook on the wall, wraps it around himself almost mechanically, and slips from the room. 

You wait until you hear violin music drifting up the stairs before you get dressed and follow him.

You contemplate him for a moment, standing in his usual spot by the window, before going into the kitchen to make some tea. You do it as quietly as possible so you don't disturb his concentration and bring the tea tray out to the table in front of the mantle. 

He finishes the mournful sounding tune and just stands still for the length of several heartbeats, the violin still tucked under his chin. Just as you think maybe he will start another song, he sets the instrument down on the music stand and drops wordlessly into his usual chair.

You hand him a cup, already sweetened the way he always makes it. He grunts softly as he accepts it.

"Was that one of yours?" You didn't recognize it, but then your musical knowledge isn't as comprehensive as his.

He nods and mumbles "timing is still wrong. Hand is still too stiff." He holds his newly mended right arm up to illustrate.

"Well, it sounded just fine to me. Bit gloomy, but nice."

His lips twitch half-heartedly and he sips his tea. "I wasn't a virgin," he begins quietly. "But I have abstained from all sexual endeavors since University because I found the process of acquiring partners tedious and ultimately not worth the distraction from far more interesting work." 

He pauses for a moment, as if he expects you to say something, but you remain silent. Right now, he needs you to listen.

He blows out a somewhat shaky breath. "I've never given my sexuality a thought. But I have thought about it since we met. I've dreamt about you..." he trails off and inhales slowly. "Anyway. It was easy to ignore my baser desires because, as you repeatedly stated, you are not gay."

You flinch at that and nearly interrupt, but you know he isn't finished yet.

"I know you have said that what happened doesn't change anything. But it has. These past months you have done more for me than I can ever repay. And you deserve better than I can possibly give."

"Okay, stop," you say as you sense he is headed in a direction you don't want to go. You set down your tea cup and lean forward until you are perched precariously on the edge of your chair, barely restraining yourself from getting up so you can move closer to him. "I said I wasn't gay because I had never been attracted to a man before. But you have made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. I regret having been too much of a coward to admit it until now and I hate myself because some primitive part of me actually feels *jealous* of the bastards who hurt you because I feel like they stole something from me and I have NO RIGHT..." You cut yourself off. You are shouting and hardly even being coherent. You swallow heavily and take a deep breath. "I love you," you finish feebly. "And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't regret not saying that sooner."

A long silence follows your tirade. Then he sets his cup down and falls wordlessly to kneel at your feet, forcing his way between your legs and silencing your startled protests with a kiss before wrapping his long arms around you and burrowing into your chest. You blink back tears as you recognize this gesture from his time in hospital. He is taking comfort in the sound of your heartbeat - strength in the warmth of your embrace.

You hold him, bury your face in his hair and whisper reassurances around the lump in your throat.

One week later, you hold his naked body tightly as he comes apart, moaning incoherently, a burst of wetness between your tightly pressed bodies making your already sweat slick skin even more slippery.

"That's it," you murmur as you both come back down, the frantic movements of your hips slowing. "That's it, love. I've got you." You stroke his back. His hip.

His grip on your shoulders loosens and he lifts his face from where he had buried it in your neck. His expression is unguarded, full of wonder, desire and trust. 

"I know," he whispers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story has been overwhelming (and surprisingly therapeutic) and I'm sad to see it end. It has become more than I ever imagined it would be. Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos. Thank you for encouraging me and sometimes commiserating with me when the real world became too much to deal with and I needed to escape. Thank you for pushing me to be a better writer (even if you didn't realize that's what you were doing), especially the former victims of sexual violence brave enough to share their stories with me. I hope I haven't let you down.
> 
> Just...thank you.

None of the men who survived make it to trial. The evidence is too overwhelming. Their prison sentences are far too lenient in your opinion - as they will eventually be released back into society - but you console yourself that by that time they will be old and grey. They will never make parole. Not as long as you and Mycroft have a say in the matter. 

You settle into your new domestic routine by degrees. You go back to sharing his larger bed when he acknowledges his need for sleep, and his nightmares - though far from gone entirely - are no longer as frequent or severe. 

Your first attempt at penetrative sex ends abruptly when he criticizes you for being too gentle. For treating him as if he is made of glass. He is right, of course, but you don't *want* to be rougher with him. Not in bed, at least. However, when he says something infuriating, you don't hesitate to give him a sharp slap on his backside right in the middle of Lestrade's office. Luckily, no one else is around to witness it. The expression on Sherlock's face is stunned and angry, yet somehow victorious.

The second time, he holds his tongue while you kiss and caress every inch of his body, taking him to the brink over and over, and by the time you are inside him all he can say is your name. It is, you think as you hold his trembling body afterward and whisper love-drunk nonsense in his ear, the closest you have ever felt to another human being. He admits as much as well later. 

One morning you are rudely awaked by Sherlock's voice booming "wake up, John, we have a case!"

You barely get your eyes open before your vision is blocked by your trousers, which he has thrown at you impatiently. 

You groan and seriously consider telling him to bugger off and then going straight back to sleep. "What time is it?"

"We've no time to lose," he continues as if you never spoke. "At least two lives may be at stake!"

You are alert enough to catch the jumper he throws next.

"I texted you the details. Lestrade is sending a car."

You hurry to dress as he vacates the room before retrieving your mobile from the dresser, groaning when you find the grisly photo in your inbox.

He is waiting impatiently in the sitting room, already wrapped in his coat and scarf.

"Are these human ears," you ask, even though you know the answer. 

"Yes, brilliant deduction," he says dryly, holding out your coat. "Whatever would I do without your medical expertise?"

You give him the withering look that sarcastic comment deserves and snatch the coat, shrugging into it as you follow him out the door. "WHY am I looking at a picture of someone's severed ears?"

"Not some ONE, John. No doubt once the shock wears off you will notice that the ears obviously once belonged to two separate individuals. One male and one female I'd wager, but we'll know for certain once we can see them in person."

You want to chastise him for being so excited by this gruesome case. But as you reach the curb and he hails a cab, you take a moment to really look at him. You recall the way he looked on the gurney that night in hospital, drugged and traumatized, and how you wondered if you would ever get your Sherlock back. And now here he is, dragging you out of bed in the wee hours of the morning, practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of solving a case. 

He isn't exactly the same. The scars he bears from his ordeal will never fully fade, even if they are no longer visible. But he is stronger now.

He was both right and wrong when he said you had done more for him these past months than he could repay. Right because the healing process has been an emotional roller coaster that has tested your friendship and your love. Wrong because he has already repaid that debt. While you may not have been able to perfectly restore the person that he was before - an impossible feat, surely - he has emerged, battered and bruised, but resilient. And your bond is stronger than ever for having endured the storm together. 

"Sherlock," you call softly as the cab pulls up.

"Hmm?" He turns toward you, belatedly lowering his upraised arm.

You frame his face between your hands and kiss him, a fierce yet chaste outpouring of love and pride.

His initial surprise wears off quickly as he recognizes what has happened. What you are most likely thinking. He reaches to cradle the back of your head and deepens the kiss, heedless of the fact that you are in public and someone might recognize you.

Let them stare, you think.

"Oi," the cabbie snaps, intruding on the moment. "You gettin' in or not? Ain't got all day!"

Sherlock makes a noise in the back of his throat and draws away reluctantly. "Later," he murmurs, a playful promise in his eyes entwined with a mixture of other, deeper emotions reflecting what you've no doubt he can see in yours. Neither of you has to say anything else. Not out loud. In hindsight, you suppose you never did.

The grin spreads over his face again, his eyes bright with excitement. "The game is on," he declares before climbing into the waiting cab. 

You smile, shake your head a little, and climb in after him.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case described at the end is Doyle's "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box".


End file.
